


the vacancy of his ribcage

by PikaCheeka



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Face-Fucking, Language, M/M, Tittyfuck, Trip's nice pecs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PikaCheeka/pseuds/PikaCheeka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Virus gets drunk and goes to town on Trip's tits.<br/>--<br/>When he first touches his bare chest, Trip can feel the whiteness emanating from those fingertips, humming over and into and beneath his skin, spreading softly, and he sighs when he catches himself mimicking the sound. Virus studies him a moment, head cocked to the side as if listening, before shrugging and deftly moving to unbuckle his belt, slide his pants off one leg at a time as he stretches and leans over Trip's prone form, moving his hips far more than necessary and grunting as he drops his underwear to the floor next and the cool air of the room hits him. Truly a spectacle tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the vacancy of his ribcage

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday fic for King, whose Trip has the perfect chest and deserves lots of Virus love! Happy birthday!
> 
> This fic is pretty explicit and talks a lot about Trip's pecs and facials and Virus being a nasty-ass drunk so you have been warned.

"Lie back." He is excited, distracted, his voice not quite attached to his body as he spreads his fingers over his chest and applies pressure, a command that is as dissonant as it is resonant, so perfectly Virus that Trip smiles and obeys. The older man straddles his hips smoothly, one fluid motion that settles around them like white noise.

Much of their sex lives are unceremonious. Abrupt and unexpected fucks against alley walls or over desks or on corpses. Mouths and hands everywhere as they roll on the couch or in one of their beds or the bathroom floor. Sex driven purely by need or curiosity or boredom or other sudden, inexplicable urges that only one of the two has to act on for something to happen because consent has never been a concern for them. But tonight is different. Tonight Virus makes a spectacle of himself, arching his back as he drags his nails slowly down Trip's chest, catching on nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt and coiling around them for the briefest of moments before he sighs and pulls away.

His face is flushed and Trip considers asking how much he's had to drink tonight, but decides when Virus suddenly smiles, vibrant eyes and white teeth leering, that it doesn't matter. "I'm going to fuck those."

 _Definitely doesn't matter._ He's fun when drunk, eager and pliable and more likely to scream, though Trip hopes he isn't far enough gone to try and talk dirty. He's good at blocking him out, but it's always a strange experience when Virus is gasping and hiccupping in his ear how luscious his cock is in seven different languages. Or his tits, as seems to be the case tonight.

He unbuttons his shirt slowly, maintaining eye contact as his thin hands pull it loose and open from his pants. Seeing those fingers touch those same buttons he'd closed this morning, Trip absently remembers the first time he'd seen Virus in one of his shirts. They'd dropped some experimental drug they'd picked up on one of their routes, an act they exercised with little precaution when young, and decided to wash their own laundry in a combination of every liquid they found in the fridge, leaving a disoriented Virus hissing and swearing in front of the mirror the next morning as he struggled to fit into the only white shirt that had survived, one of Trip's, and he'd finally snapped that the vastness of his shoulders was too much to bear before crawling back into bed and calling Toue to tell him they couldn't go to work because they had no clothing and no, he didn't think any more explanation was necessary. Even when buttoned wrong, it could have fit him half again.

When he first touches his bare chest, Trip can feel the whiteness emanating from those fingertips, humming over and into and beneath his skin, spreading softly, and he sighs when he catches himself mimicking the sound. Virus studies him a moment, head cocked to the side as if listening, before shrugging and deftly moving to unbuckle his belt, slide his pants off one leg at a time as he stretches and leans over Trip's prone form, moving his hips far more than necessary and grunting as he drops his underwear to the floor next and the cool air of the room hits him. Truly a spectacle tonight.

Virus rarely takes everything off and Trip can't help the slight shift in his breath, the heightening of his body temperature an infinitesimal amount only he could notice, when he sees him begin to unbutton his own shirt. But those tapered white fingers stop there, leaving it merely open, his own nipples dark and erect. They are sensitive, a favorite for Trip to bite and tease, though for once he resists. Instead he slides his hand across the bed, grabs for one of the tubes on the nightstand they are sure never to run out of, when Virus swiftly and viciously slaps him back. The white-hot contact rings down Trip's arm and he laughs, rolling his tongue out and popping his jaw. There are times when Virus tries to be as forceful with him as he himself can be, but Trip only finds his dominance arousing. This is one of those times, as he jerks his hips up and bucks Virus onto his face, those tapered fingers scrabbling in the sheets on either side of his head as the fabric of his shirt scrape lightly against his throat.

"Fuck this first," Trip suggests, admiring the view as he lazily runs his fingers up the other man’s thighs.

He doesn’t need any more initiative than that. He rarely does. “Keep your fat mouth open,” he slurs, positioning himself as Trip obediently holds his jaws open. He must be more drunk than either of them realized, because when he thrusts his hips downward he nearly misses, scraping against teeth and moving so sharply that Trip nearly chokes, groans around him and grabs his hips. He has little enough of a gag reflex left, but in this position and at this angle there is a chance Virus will set him off. There is a moment when neither move, one gasping for air as the other slowly, tentatively, pushes against him with his tongue.

The unique taste of Virus is a brightness that Trip has defined _himself_ with in their years together, a vibrant bitterness that reverberates deep in his veins, seeping into his marrow and taking up residence in the vacancy of his ribcage. It is the taste of soft white light, of a gentle silence encompassing him, of perfection and _in_ fection and a thousand other things he has never given, and never will give, voice to. Virus had once asked what he tasted like, and Trip had only rolled his taste around in his mouth before grabbing the other man’s face and roughly kissing him. After a moment Trip opens his eyes again, taps once, twice, on Virus’ hip, gesturing him to move.

There are times when Virus doesn’t acknowledge his cues, just as there are times when Trip ignores his, but tonight is not one of those times. He moves quickly, jerkily, white-kneed and white-knuckled in the blankets as he jerks his hips back and thrusts into Trip’s mouth with a force that leaves sparks of silence behind the younger man’s eyes. He’s grateful for the pillow beneath his head tonight as he slides his tongue around Virus’ cock, occasionally moving his jaw just enough to lightly scrap teeth over skin and leave him hissing and muttering expletives. It isn’t long before his mouth begins to ache, before his temporomandibular joint, damaged years past in the time he ground his jaw out of its sockets in rage at being separated from Virus, begins to protest, but he embraces the pain because it comes with his sex in his mouth and they will never be separated again.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, because time stops when Virus enters his body, but he knows enough has drifted past them when his thrusts become increasingly erratic. Trip holds him still, fingers sunk into his hips and ass and upper thighs as he prevents him from fucking him too hard. Because Virus is too excited already, and if he’s going to last the night he needs to slow down. There will be bruises tomorrow for him to kiss and suck, purple crescents over his ass where he dug his fingers in and cut his nails deeply into the softness that is Virus. That is how it should be.

And then Trip pushes him back, releasing him with a bright and audible wetness that snaps in his ears and sinks into the air around them. He licks his lips, savoring the taste of his sweat and pre-come, and settles his gasping partner onto his chest. "You were gonna come too fast."

Virus scowls for the barest of moments, but his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright and dilated, as if whomever created their synthetic eyes were unable to entirely do away with how arousal might affect them. A defect not visible in Trip's, the perfect model, but one that never ceases to bring a stirring to his loins when he sees it in the other man's. Virus who now slides forward over his torso, cold and wet with saliva. Trip can feel the muscles in his ass twitch slightly and dreams of the bruises that are sure to be there tomorrow and grins.

He almost doesn’t notice that Virus is talking, distracted as he is.

“I ordered new jackets for us today. So I had to…measure you again,” he stops to laugh, tracing a finger slowly over Trip’s clavicle and down his chest. “Last night. You were asleep.”

Trip’s fairly certain that wasn’t necessary, seeing as they measured one another only last month, but he’s used to Virus being attentive with his body, just as he’s used to Virus doing things to him in his sleep. He wonders absently what the jackets are as he tilts his hips forward. He wishes he’d taken his pants off for this, because with what Virus is about to do he is sure to come, and they’ve already dirtied four pairs in the last seventy-two hours.

“114 centimeters,” Virus is still speaking, clasping his hands together for the barest of moments as he smirks triumphantly, glances down at Trip, and bares his teeth.

There are many things they don’t mention, and Virus’ fascination with his muscular chest is one such thing. By now, they have fucked every orifice and body part of one another, but he’s fucked his tits often enough for Trip to know that a sure way to arouse him is to simply press his chest against him at any point in time. It has its advantages, Trip reflects, such as now.

Virus moves then, abrupt and vicious as a pit viper as he scrapes nails over nipples and grabs his pecs and thrusts his hips forward, this time not into his mouth but in the groove of his chest.

Trip arches his back, curls his shoulders forward and tightens his muscles to make more of furrow for Virus, who accepts eagerly, sex sliding between his muscles with ease brought on by his saliva. He doesn’t want to close his eyes for even a second as the tension builds in the pit of his stomach and the back of his skull, and instead focuses on taking all of Virus in.

The way his hair falls in his face and his eyes, so raucous in the vibrancy of blue, shutter closed as he gasps and moans, lips wet and parted, pale damp eyelashes brushing the bags beneath his eyes. Trip wants to reach up and grab his face, pull him down into a kiss and bite his tongue, but he resists, instead lowering his chin to focus on the rest of Virus. The sheen of sweat on his chest, the darkness of his erect nipples, the crease of muscles in his belly and the trail of blond hair beneath his naval, the tightness of his thighs around his ribs. The way his cock is hard and flushed and dripping and the way his fingers dig into Trip’s muscles, crushing his pecs together and fucking them for all his worth.

The air hums around them in the white silence that always comes with Virus’ intimacy; he resists the urge to wrap his arms around him, rip his own pants open, and take himself in hand. He knows he doesn’t need it, knows that Virus rubbing his ass over his belly and his cock over his chest like this is enough. And Virus can see his distraction, smiling suddenly, glasses now crooked on his face as he absently begins kneading his fingers, mumbling something drunkenly under his breath.

Trip can feel the change in the way his thigh muscles twitch, the erratic thrusts of his hips and the way he begins to drip, that he is close to climaxing. He opens his mouth immediately, jaw popping again as he rolls his tongue out and waits for Virus to offer up his essence. When he comes, he comes hard, arching his back, hunching his shoulders up and forward and lowering his head in that infuriating habit of his as he hides the fragile whiteness of his throat. His cry sinks into a hiss as he bites it back with those sharp white teeth, jerking his hips forward again and again before shuddering to a halt. His fluids splatter against Trip’s face and into his waiting mouth, and he feels his own pants dampen slightly as the taste seeps into his tongue and bones. He licks his lips and allows that sublime bitter light to settle around his ears and beneath his ribs. Virus Virus _Virus_. He feels thighs twitch beneath his fingers; this is all he wants in life.

Virus slumps against him a moment before rolling off, moaning as he lays his head on Trip’s shoulder and slides his fingers over his chest, now wet with sweat and saliva and come. “You’re a mess, Trip,” he says absently, his voice a soft hum.

“It’s your mess,” he shoots back, basking in the glow of the sound of his voice, the light of his taste on his tongue, before shifting to his side, nudging Virus aside just enough to rest his forehead against his own. Virus’ eyes are half-open and glassy, his breath hot and his face flushed.

“Your face is dirty,” his voice is slurred as he runs his fingers down Trip’s torso, deftly undoes his belt with a single hand.

Trip decides it isn’t worth pointing out that it is, again, _his_ mess, not with those tapered white fingers _finally_ freeing him. He only touches Virus’ throat, where the light emanates, and whispers, “Fuck me.”

Virus doesn’t need any more initiative than that.


End file.
